


a loaded god complex

by dancebreaknervous



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, fob - Fandom
Genre: Anorexia, Bulimia, Eating Disorder, M/M, Self Harm, Smut, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-07-22 08:16:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7427095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancebreaknervous/pseuds/dancebreaknervous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick Stump lost weight during Soul Punk in a healthy, responsible manner.<br/>He's tired of waiting for results again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Patrick, Meet World.

Patrick knew a few things. He was in a band called Fall Out Boy, where he sang and played guitar. He wished he would have died before twenty one. He was in love with Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the Third, thank you very much. And everyone thought he was fat.  
Losing weight wasn't an uncommon thing on tour. Pete never found time. Andy couldn't eat most of the fast food they brought on, waiting until they stopped. Joe simply forgot. Patrick never forgot. When Pete ordered pizza and the kid came to drop it off, Patrick went to get the greasy death trap. He stared for a moment.  
The boy’s sunken cheekbones and hollow eyes were proof enough for Patrick. Thinning hair fell in front of his dull green eyes. His hands were cracked as he handed the pizza to Patrick. And Patrick loved it. The boy’s defined cheekbones and baggy shirt combined with the growl his stomach made him start to think as he handed over the cash and shut the door.  
Later, in Pete’s hotel room, they were watching football, because fuck you guys, this is an important Packers game. Patrick was on his third slice when he heard Joe say something about how he was inhaling the food. He dropped his slice and made up a bullshit excuse about not feeling well, racing to the bathroom under the scrutiny of a single, worried pair of dark brown irises.

When Patrick was ten, he'd gotten a stomach virus and thrown up for three days, violent episodes that left him sweaty and whimpering. So why was it so hard now as he openly gave his body the chance? He was on his knees, the rule rough and uneven and ugly under his knees. His mouth was agape and he'd eased two fingers down his throat, and why the fuck didn't he have a gag reflex. He wiggled them around for a minute, and as soon as he went to pull the fingers up he lost it, contents of his stomach spilling into the toilet bowl. When Patrick came out, he was met by those damned brown eyes, smooth like caramel and dark like chocolate. And of fucking course he's comparing it to food.

Patrick was glad he'd shut down his social media. Less people to tell him he was beautiful. Less lies.

The next day, Patrick stole one of Pete’s black leather bound notebooks, leaving twenty dollars on his bass case as payment. His pen hesitated.

This notebook belongs to:

Truth was, Patrick didn't know.

Fatrick is what he wrote, black pen practically sealing his fate against the page. And it burned like hell.

That night, Patrick’s singing was rough and awful and ached and from Andy’s worried glances and Joe’s pointed stares, he felt defeated. But those eyes were still on him. Until suddenly they weren't. Pete lost focus later, after the second show on the way back to the bus.  
One of the fans waiting outside told Patrick he helped them lose weight with Soul Punk. Then went on to tell him that they wished he would lose it again. Patrick looked shocked as they walked off with a friend. “I will,” he’d murmured, staring down at his stomach.  
Patrick relished in the thought while he was tasting the catering from an hour before come up like bile, climbing his throat and spilling out like Niagara Falls. When he came back out, he sat down, staring at the notebook. He flipped to the first page. 

One slice of pizza is 285 calories. One is supposed to eat 1000 calories a day.  
If I can get down to four hundred, I’ll reach 100 pounds before tour ends.

Several hours later, Patrick looked at his work.

Monday: Fasting day  
Tuesday: Yogurt  
Wendsday: Smoothies, water, coffee, tea  
Thursday: Yogurt  
Friday: Whatever I want. Throw up/work out  
Saturday: Dinner w/ A, J, P.  
Sunday: Fast, Fatrick.


	2. hollow this heavy heart and empty me bloated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uh guess who's back?
> 
> also while im posting wake me up came on? god hates me

Patrick never realized there were so many alternatives to not eating. Pete’s arms were so goddamn skinny.

Patrick met up with Ryan, who took one look at the greying skin of the singer and pulled him into the bathroom. 

That night had ended in a sheepish smile from the other musician and the taste of bile on his lips.

Patrick’s voice was trashed that night. Joe just gave him a few pointed glares and Andy asked him if he was alright once they came offstage. He felt Pete’s eyes on him and coughed. “Sorry, guys. Fuckin’ cold.” He sniffled to prove his point. 

Weeks later into tour, Patrick had realized it was pretty fucking hard to shake Peter Wentz’s attention. He always felt the worried gaze of the brown eyed lyricist on the back of his head, always noticed the way Pete would perk up before and after he went to the “bathroom”. The pair of eyes was everywhere. On his notebook, particularly. When Patrick would come back from runs (Andy didn't say anything, thank god), he would be holding his notebook tightly to his chest, as if the tighter he kept the pages the more secure the secrets would be. Pete tried to look one day. Patrick screamed until his voice was hoarse.  
It wasn't hard. His voice was always hoarse.  
Ryan avoided him. All of Panic did. Whatever. The message count on his phone was declining in tune with his mental state. 

The only person Patrick thought might know was Andy. “Patrick, dude- finish your pizza.” Andy’s voice was always soft, but it seemed softer, more gentle. Concerned. Patrick hated it.

“Fuck off,” he’d murmured simply, slamming the plate down and heading to the bunk. Pete had given him a started glance and Joe simply flipped him off.

When Pete crawled into his bunk and ran a gentle hand through Patrick’s hair, Patrick started to cry. A few strands broke off into Pete’s grasp, his shocked face made Patrick cry harder, face pressed into the hollow of Pete’s neck. Patrick hated him, but inhaling Pete’s scent was always enough to put Patrick to sleep. Pete didn't sleep for a second that night.


	3. strawberries and (whipped) cream (cal: 204)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's short im dumb  
> also check out my friend @stumph on here he's both an amazing writer and a friend. only i get to call him both on here
> 
> suck it losers i know him better than u do
> 
> also thx for the support like what the fuck

Pete Wentz was not an easy man to fool. He also considered himself an expert in three things. Pills, Patrick, disorders. They were his strong suits. The fact Patrick had issues with the way he looked wasn't a surprise to anyone but Pete, he'd assume, because people have capacity to say awful things. The thing that pissed Pete off is that Patrick isn't ugly or fat or anything besides utterly beautiful.

You can call me crazy, Pete wrote. You can call me crazy if it’s true.

Pete’s heart breaks a little more every single time Patrick pulls out the notebook. When he opened the first page, sees ‘Fatrick’ scribbled on the first page, Patrick had screamed. It wasn't sadness or confusion, or any emotion he was used to. It was sheer anger. It was insults and knives in the form of words which became knives in the form or pain and tears and blood on his arm and a sense of self-hatred he’d tried to ditch in 2006.

Joe and Andy know he did it. Joe casually mentions how hot it is on the bus, mentions Pete should take his hoodie off. He doesn't. At least Joe was direct- with Hurley it was all frightened glances that made him feel like he was a steel boot and Andy’s emotions were a puppy, scared and fragile and unsure of what was about to potentially happen. And seeing as Joe was trying to get over the constant need to ask everyone if they were okay, the situation wasn't helping.

The scene is dead, Pete wrote, and I think my best friend died with it.

Pete could hear it everywhere. His eyes didn't mean shit. He could hear the strain on Patrick’s voice. The gagging in the night. He could hear Joe’s crying, separate from the group, afraid of being teased for it, and he could hear Andy drumming his fingers on the top of his bunk until he fell asleep. Sometimes, when everything was still and the other three were passed out in their bunks, Pete would get up and wander to the back to pretend he fell asleep watching movies. On those nights, Pete would cry, only letting loose when the only one to listen would be his thoughts and the hum of the engine.

By the time he was crawling into Patrick’s bunk, inhaling the scent of strawberries and cream with a hint of vanilla. He buried his nose in Patrick’s hair as the younger boy started to wake, forcing himself to pretend to sleep until real sleep could claim him.


	4. bloodied bile and razors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as you can tell from the title  
> shit isn't fun  
> as preview of the next chapter  
> someone goes missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when you can't write fucking decent conversation
> 
> oh ya very implied but not explicit smut

Patrick wondered what it was like to die. It wasn't weird or anything, especially not in their band, where they knew everything about the others’ issues. Mostly. Sometimes, late at night, when Pete had since crawled into Patrick’s bunk and started lazily kissing at his jaw, now sharp and pointed, he'd whisper how he missed the feeling of pills down his throat. Patrick would hush him with a kiss to the forehead and a gentle hand on his back, rubbing reassuring circles. Andy had held a gun to his head for ten minutes out of curiosity before calling Patrick. Joe had once stood on the roof of their van, while Pete and Patrick were busy screaming at each other for God knows what, and hit himself. He'd come down, eyes bruised and hands bloody from his probably-broken nose, and crawled into Andy’s arms, who was more than happy to soothe the crying boy. For everyone else, acting strange was perfectly fine. But if Patrick acted up, it was everywhere.

It was the granola bars Andy would leave on his bunk. The plates of disgusting, carb heavy food Joe would thrust at him before a show. It was the way Pete looked at him when he got up to go to the bathroom after every meal.

He was balding again. Thin strands of hair came off in Pete’s fingers. Pete had teared up. Patrick had giggled. 

His notebook was full halfway through the tour, pages spilling with information and words in different languages, knowing if Pete got too nosey he'd only catch a glimpse. Patrick took the notebook and headed to the bathroom. 

Slowly, he stripped down to his underwear and flipped to the last page.

Good:  
Sharp collarbones  
Thin neck  
Thin ankles  
Ribs

Bad:  
Shoulders  
Stomach overhangs still  
Thighs

He was still ugly. Still. That’s when the meltdown started. Patrick’s elbow connected with the mirror. Andy was on his feet first, running to the door, with a groggy Joe and a very scared Pete following behind. Patrick started to cry, falling to his knees in front of the toilet. “I'm just- l-leave me alone!” The singer shouted, shaking and gripping the toilet bowl. Suddenly there was red, staining the porcelain and the water, and the floor. 

There was a crash when Andy kicked the door down, yanking it back off the hinges and putting it to the side. All Pete could see was red, PatrickfloorbloodPatrick, and he was on the ground, cradling the younger to his chest. Joe was on the phone, shouting something incoherent while Andy just stared and the spider-thin body of the boy in front of him.

When they got back from the hospital, Patrick didn't talk. Patrick didn't let Pete into his bunk for stolen moments of time. Every four hours Andy was there, gently coaxing his food down. Joe guarded the bathroom for an hour, and Pete would just sit, watching Patrick with big eyes. Patrick hated them. 

He hated them. He hated recovery, he hated his weight and he hated himself. 

The exercising wasn't normal. Even Andy would call it too much, say you needed time for muscle to rebuild. Fuck muscle. Patrick was doing sit-ups in the lounge when Pete had entered. “Hi,” Pete whispered, staring. The lyricist fingered the razor in his pocket nervously. Long night. 

“Don't talk to me,” Patrick said, trying to sound angry, but it came out as a pant. Smooth. Pete strided over and sat. His thumb brushed over Patrick’s jaw. Patrick wanted to pull away, wanted to yell at him and shout the worst things and cut right through Pete’s self esteem and hurt him, he wanted to damage Pete like he was damaged. The only distraction was Pete’s lips on his, Pete’s hands lowering him to the floor. Pete’s long fingers slowly undoing the buttons on Patrick’s shirt. 

“You're overdressed,” Patrick murmured, lips pressing to Pete’s neck. 

“You're overthinking,” Pete murmured back, smiling but keeping his longsleeve on, lips trailing down Patrick’s chest and past his hips.

And suddenly it was Pete, Pete, Pete and Patrick’s lips parted as the bassist sunk down onto his lap and simply sat there, head tilted back and breath caught in his throat. 

Patrick took control. It was all in his notebook. He lasted longer than usual, and Pete whined and squirmed. He worked it out afterwards; two hundred calories. Suddenly Patrick felt sick- Pete isn't a calorie count. Pete isn't carbs. Pete isn't fat or protein. He got up, picking up Pete’s shorts to put them in the wash. Tears were streaming his face. He glanced out at the older man, sprawled across the floor.

There was a razor in Pete’s pocket. All Patrick could do was stare. 

When someone was crawling into Andy’s bunk, he woke, assuming in the dark it was Joe. A small smile formed on his lips and he was reaching for where Joe’s hair would be brushed against the pillow. Patrick made a confused noise, and Andy recognized him, sighing. “Patrick, hey.” His arms wrapped around the singer. “What's wrong? Where's Pete?” He whispered, rubbing Patrick’s back. Patrick didn't respond for a moment.

“We fucked. He's sleeping.” Patrick sounded like a lost puppy. All Andy wanted was Joe. 

“Okay..?” Andy sighed. “Patrick, that has never been a problem before. Never.”

It took half an hour for Patrick to explain. Then it was Andy crying and Patrick holding him, and as soon as Patrick was asleep he rolled out to find Joe, shaking him awake. Joe’s eyes flickered open and he groaned. He smelled like weed and cigarettes and something three-weeks old, and Andy simply crawled up and pulled out his headphones. Joe got the cue and took his, not bothering to ask what was wrong. It wasn't worth it when he knew everything was wrong.


	5. come spit on bridges with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe needs a drink. Pete needs a reason. Andy needs Joe. Patrick needs help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took long enough  
> but u try writing fic with no errors on a cracked ass computer

Joe was gone in the morning, and Pete was angry. Invoking the anger of Pete Wentz was never a good idea, and the splits in his knuckles said a lot. Andy stared at the man, angrily scribbling words down. “One more time. Where is my boyfriend?” Andy’s voice was a low hiss. Pete looked up.

“Okay, one more time, Hurley, I don't give a shit,” he sneered back, standing up and stalking to his bunk. Pete wasn't of any help.

Patrick simply sat and watched Pete, an unreadable expression on his face. Andy’s hand slapped down onto the table and Pete flinched. “Shut the fuck up! The smartass act is shit and you know it, asshole!” Pete just stared at him before spitting, landing in a glob on the table in front of the drummer. A sadistic grin drew his lips apart. Andy’s fist connected with Pete’s jaw. Patrick screamed as Pete hit the floor with a loud, crunchcrashrustlethunk. 

Joe wrapped his jacket closer around himself and kicked a rock. He saw red dripping down his shirt in a cascade of red and bad decisions, but he didn’t care. He imagined Andy- he would be concerned, Joe would like to think, gently asking what had happened and touchhing his nose so gingerly Joe couldn’t help but wonder how the man he saw beating the shit out of a drumkit night after night could be so gentle, with such practiced finesse and care. He thought about the way that some nights, Andy would sit next to Joe and just watch him. It’d happened for years, since they were all just a bunch of wannabe’s in a band with nowhere to go and nothing to eat. Joe remembered Pete taking note of it, like he did of everything that happened. And Patrick had teased him gently once, but that ended in a fight Joe didn’t like to recall. Andy would watch him intently, eyes so deep Joe thought that he could get lost, that he was, and Joe would flash him a cocky grin that he could tell Andy could see through.

That was what led to their first kiss, he recalled, pausing to sit on a bench and light his last cigarette. Andy had started watching him, and Joe had turned. 

_“Do you mind?” Joe hissed out, shoving Andy on the arm. Andy had paused, blinking._

_“Would you mind if I sat next to you and watched you smile?” A small grin rose to Andy’s lips. It was infectious, and Joe didn’t feel like smiling, he felt like crying and sitting in a corner and drinking away the album reviews and ignoring everyone, especially the hopelessly hot drummer._

_“You know, only assholes quote the band they’re in,” Joe mumbled, watching as Andy leaned forward, too close, much too close, and his nose brushed against Joe’s._

_“Yep. I’m an asshole.” His lips pressed to Joe’s, not closing his eyes before he pulled back. “That’s why you should slap me right now and tell me to go to Hell, right?”_

_Joe would do no such thing._

Andy let out a frustrated noise and looked at Patrick. “He fucking deserved it. I want to know what the fuck he did to Joe.” His voice was a predatory growl. Pete held the ice to his jaw and flipped Andy off, eyes dark. Patrick glanced at them both. 

“Has anyone even tried calling him?” Patrick’s question startled Andy and the man jumped up, running to grab his phone. 

“We have GPS set up on each other’s phones. So if Joe gets lost at a party I can come get him,” Andy explained curtly, pulling up the app. Pete got up. Patrick put a hand on his shoulder. He was still mad at the bassist, but he was going to make the effort. “Stay. We need to talk in private, anyway, right?” Pete nodded slightly, closing his eyes and sitting.

Joe was smoking jacket still wrapped tightly around him. He tried to shake the snow out of his hair and it came off in little clouds, settling down on his shoulders before melting and soaking into the fabric, not helping with the situation. The sidewalk and streets were empty, mostly, a few tourists with cameras being the only exception.  
He wasn’t surprised at all when he saw Andy running down the street. He was more frustrated. The blood on his shirt wasn’t any help to the situation. Andy slowed to a stop when he got to the bench, immediately enveloping the guitarist in a hug. He took a few deep breaths. “Joe, baby, what-”

“Pete,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “I was mad at him for making you cry, and- well, I was mad at Patrick, then Pete was there so I got mad at Pete, and he pushed me and I pushed him back and he-” he gestured to his nose.

 

“Pete Wentz is fucking dead,” Andy hissed, looking Joe over for any other injuries. After finding none, he started coaxing Joe back to the bus. Joe was hesitant, but when Andy threatened to withhold sex for two weeks he was practically running. Nothing was worth that punishment.

When Andy saw Patrick forcing down food with Pete rubbing his arm, he decided to beat the bassist’s ass later, leading Joe back to the lounge to clean him up, snapping his nose back into place and wiping up the blood. 

_“Andy, shut the fuck up!” Joe shoved the drummer in the chest, eyes blazing. “Fuckin’- Fuck you, dude! Fuck off!”_

_Andy growled and grabbed Joe’s shirt, hoisting him up (not effective, Joe was taller) and pushing him into the shitty club’s brick wall. “You shut up! Fucking dick!” Joe kicked as hard as he could, and Andy stumbled backwards, holding his crotch as his face burned red and a groan escaped his lips. He grabbed Joe and turned him around, wrapping his arm around the taller’s neck. Joe’s skinny arms flailed like there was no tomorrow and his breath came in short gasps, chin pushing into Andy’s elbow, trying to get out of the headlock. Andy held him there until Joe’s movements stilled, and as soon as they did he scooped Joe up, grumbling as he carried him back to the van. There was no use in killing the guitarist, he told himself, Patrick is spread thin as it is. Patrick’s a sweet kid. It wasn’t Patrick’s fault Andy was in love, and it wasn’t Patrick’s fault Joe couldn’t fucking control himself. It wasn’t Patrick’s fault Joe was closeted._

Joe fell asleep while Andy was up getting painkillers. Andy let him sleep. He knew it would be a while before he got to again.


	6. you have blisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when we met  
> i was on my back

William was there. Patrick didn't know when he got there. He assumed Pete had told him to come. He was assuming a lot about Pete lately.

“You're doing fucking great,” William mumbled, rubbing Patrick’s arm as he downed the sandwich. Patrick wanted to shove William’s skinny little hands up and push his thumbs into the other singer’s eyes.

He smiled politely. 

William did some good, though. One night him and Patrick sat outside and listened to Elvis Costello (which was already a bonus), and they lit Patrick’s calorie book on fire, watching it’s ashes spread across the parking lot. He made Joe stop sitting by the bathroom, which made Patrick stop thinking about it, he pushed Andy out of the situation, which made Patrick want to jump out of the bus while it was moving a little less, because Andy always looked so sad. 

Best of all, he helped Pete, too. 

One night, him and Pete had gone out and thrown Pete’s razors into a river. Pete said he had more. William said, “I know.”

The scabs turned into scars. Patrick would lay in the dark while Pete’s chest was still heaving and his own face was flushed red, running his still-shaking fingers over Pete’s wrists and sides. He was glad for the dark. The dark was his friend. Nobody can see you in the dark.

Eventually Patrick’s motions would still and Pete would get up, smoking and leaning over the balcony, letting words tumble from his lips in a random order, hopeful something would make enough sense to give to Patrick. Patrick was magic. Patrick made Pete’s nonsense something great.

 

The bar was loud, Joe thought slowly, and William was very, very close, and very warm. And very, very drunk. So was Joe.

William dragged him into the back, hands drifting up his shirt, movements sloppy. Joe grinned sloppily. “Hey.”

William ignored him, rolling his eyes as well as he could. His fingers slid around Joe’s belt.

“Get the fuck off of him, now,” Andy growled, eyes widening. “Get the fuck out!” William scrambled away. Joe’s head fell to the side and he collapsed back onto the bed. Andy slipped away, tears spilling over.

Patrick was livid. When Patrick got livid, even Pete got out of the way, eyes wide with fear. William was sitting in another man’s lap, grinding down, eyes hazed with alcohol. Patrick yanked him off, throwing him down to the floor. William stared up at him.

The bruises covering William the next day were all he needed to know he did something stupid. And the texts from Gabe. Things were bad on both fronts. He made a phone call. Things got just a little better.

Andy, however, wouldn't speak to Joe. Joe’s throbbing headache wasn't helping, and every time he sat up searing pain coursed through his head, white clouding his vision, and he let his head fall against the pillow. Patrick played with the hem of Pete’s shirt. “Hey, Pete?” The bassist only hummed in reply. 

“Are we gonna make it?”

It took a few minutes for Pete to answer. In that time, Andy had picked Joe up and carried him into the lounge, face portraying utter anger and determination. “Does anyone?” Patrick looked at the door. Joe’s moans floated through. He made a face.

“They are. Andy and Joe.” He buried his face in Pete’s chest. Pete held it there, before pulling him up to bury his nose in Patrick’s hair.

“I think we might. We have so far.” He kissed Patrick’s temple.

“Have we?”

 

William sighed. “Patrick. Pete worked hard on this, you should at least eat it.” Patrick looked down at the half-burnt quesadilla, scowling. 

“You and I both know that Pete, as much as I love him, can’t cook on this bus. It already smells like something died, I don’t need to taste it.” That made William laugh a little. 

“Eat the damn food,” William said, rolling his eyes and looking down at his phone. 

_bill  
billiam  
william  
billiam  
im not mad text me back  
pick up ur phone  
will i am bill-kett  
answer  
pick up ur fucking phooooooone_

_Gabe. Calm down._

_nooooo u should have answered e  
me*  
i was a dick m sotty  
*sorry  
ah i feel fucking bad?? im an ass. _

_It’s okay.  
I'm sorry about the Joe thing. I got drunk._

_ah  
it's ok _

William put the phone down when he heard Patrick push the clear plate away. “Nice,” he commented, impressed. “Damn, dude.” He rubbed Patrick’s arm as Pete approached. He was beaming. Pete sat down, giving William a look that clearly said to leave. 

“Hey, babe.” Pete’s eyes were gentle. “Was your lunch good?” Patrick felt like gagging from the bitter taste in his mouth from the burnt half-food. 

“It was great,” he lied, closing his eyes as Pete sat in his lap, arms wrapping around his neck. He felt the lips, gentle on his jaw, and he could catch glimpses here and there of the necklace of thorns Pete wore with pride. They brought a smile to his lips, splitting his face in the uncomfortable pattern.

His weight loss had slowed down. It was alarming. It could be the food weighing him down, setting heavy in his stomach and making him ache, or it could be how fast he had lost it in the first place. The less fat you had, the harder it got to lose, and if Patrick lifted his arms above his head he could see the skin stretched over his ribcage, porcelain and delicate and small. 

William started to be around less. Gabe started to be around more. Patrick didn't mind. 

Pete cried less. Joe smoked less. Andy got in less fights. Patrick broke less mirrors.

Patrick read over Pete’s shoulder. 

_hello my sunshine, are you ready to burst again?_


	7. please don't let me be, if you do please send my sanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smutsmutsmuthappens
> 
> and petes emo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone fucking get me jesus  
> smut ain't detailed cuz i got bored. maybe more in depth later?

Joe moaned weakly as Andy collapsed next to him. “Shit. That was nice,” Joe breathed, reaching for Andy. Andy still wasn't over Joe and William. Every night since, he'd made his presence clear all over Joe’s body. Pale yellow smudges on his hips, red splotches on his neck he made Pete cover with foundation for him, and absolute discomfort when trying to sit down. Andy let Joe gently touch his arm this time, let Joe wrap himself around the drummer and squeeze him and mumble variations of “you're great” and “I love you” in his ear. Damn his hair- his cheeks turned bright red. Joe giggled softly and brushed his nose against Andy’s, still dazed in the afterglow. 

Andy had quickly learned that if Joe didn't get to cuddle at least a little after, it wasn't good for anyone involved. “Andy, do you hate me?” Joe’s question started him out of his thoughts. His hands froze in Joe’s hair.

“No,” he said eventually. “I hate some things you do. Like drinking or smoking, and- I hated you that one time you tried fucking coke.” That made Joe cough. “I hate it when you cry,” Andy continued, “I hate it when you make people angry and I have to punch them, I hate how much more social you are than me because I'm jealous, but those things just make me love you more. Besides the drugs. I'm never going to say you should be taking drugs.” Joe sighed and trailed his fingers over the lines of ink on Andy’s chest. 

“Me and Patrick are heading out tonight.” Joe bit his lip. “He needs a drink.” Andy sighed. 

 

The thing about a drunk Patrick is one needs to catch it on video to play it back later and laugh at how embarrassed sober Patrick would get. Joe had taken it upon himself. Patrick was slumped over the bar, giggling and holding a daiquiri in one hand and his phone in the other. “Pete. No, Pete, sweetie, I have something to say! Sh, sh..” He pressed a finger to his lips, spilling pink on the counter. “Sh, Peter. Pete, baby! I have something to say. Shush! Hold on.” He took a drink. “You-” he burped. “Are fucking hot.” He started to laugh. Joe took the phone and slurred about Patrick being safe and “He’s m’kay. Bye, Pete-r. Peteater. Patrick, you’re a Peteater!” The call ended with a snort from Pete and Joe picking a laughing Patrick off the floor.

When they finally got back to the bus, Patrick flopped into his bunk and Pete sat. Patrick laid his head on Pete’s lap. Pete was balanced awkwardly but made it work, head poking around the edge of the bunk and body twisted. Joe let out a giggle before collapsing into Andy’s lap. “Hi.” Andy frowned.

“What the fuck are you doing?” The drummer asked carefully as Joe grinded his hips down onto Andy’s. 

“What you want.” His mouth opened slightly as Andy shifted.

“You're drunk. Stop.” He pushed at Joe’s shoulders. Joe frowned.

“Let me suck your cock. C’mon, ‘dy.” Andy stared into Joe’s eyes for a moment. 

“Fine,” he finally hissed, head tilting back. Joe sunk to his knees gratefully and made a sighing noise as Andy struggled to take his belt off. 

As soon as Andy’s shorts were off, Joe was nuzzling into Andy’s crotch, thick hair tickling over his thighs. He pulled down Andy’s boxers.

Andy stroked himself slowly for a moment before Joe’s tongue flicked against the tip. One, two, three times, then his lips wrapped around the head of Andy’s dick. Andy let out a moan, deep and throaty, and Joe made eye contact before he started to slide down.

_Fuck_. Fuck, Joe was good at this, and Andy’s fingers were tangled in his hair, pushing him down, further, until his nose was against Andy’s skin and Andy moaned, knowing Pete would be on his ass about it later. Joe made a noise and Andy pulled him up, barely letting him take a breath before he pushed his head back down. Andy let out another noise- more like a whine then anything, rubbing a thumb over Joe’s upper lip. Joe kept bobbing his head lazily, it coming as natural to him at this point as picking up a guitar and playing Black Flag’s discography while Andy laid his head on the man’s lap.

Joe got no warning when Andy came, quickly pulling off and making a face before going to clean himself off with a tissue. No matter how many times they did this, Joe got grossed out at the end and Andy thought it was endearing. Andy noticed the wet spot on Joe’s pants and smirked before getting up and walking over, not bothering with pants as he wrapped his arms around the taller man’s waist from behind. Joe hummed. “Heyo.”

“It’s time for you to get some fucking sleep, Trohman,” he deadpanned, picking him up. Joe whined and struggled for a moment before remembering that if he moved to much he could knock Andy over and in the confined space that wouldn’t be good. Instead of making the pantsless voyage to the bunks, Andy resigned himself to laying Joe on the couch and curling into his side.

Patrick immediately noticed the cold space next to him when he woke, and frowned, getting up. There was breakfast on the floor by his bunk, and even if he’d consider eating it (which he wouldn’t, it was a fast day), it looked disgusting, and if Pete had cooked it he’d have to be around here somewhere. He walked towards the lounge and opened the door. Andy was up, making coffee for Joe, and Patrick only noticed he was pantsless when he saw Andy’s dick and he screamed, covering his eyes and retreating. No Pete, just a very nude Andy and a very sweaty couch that he would not be sitting on again, no way. He continued to try and find Pete, before realizing _we’re parked, dumbass_ and went to the door. Pete was outside, sitting and chucking rocks at the side of the bus. _Ping. Ping. Ping._

“Hey, babe.” Patrick sat down.

_Ping. Ping. Ping._

“Sweetheart, you not want to talk or something?”

_Ping. Ping. Ping._  
Ping. Ping.  
PING. PING. PING. PING. 

“Sweetie, don't leave dents.” Patrick sighed softly. Pete paused. 

“Did you eat yet?” Patrick froze. Pete sighed and got up. “Come on.”

Patrick ate the food. Pete left the bus. Patrick decided, in that moment, he wanted to punch Pete then kiss away the blood.


	8. i didn't come for a fight (but i will fight til the end)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> but this one might be a battle  
> might not turn out okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh theres a scene in here thats not very friendly if youve had an ed or they make you upset. thats why it took me so long sorry but the next two will come faster. dont get attached. attachment is bad bad bad.

2340\. Two thousand, three hundred and forty filthy calories passed into his system. Patrick stared at the last cereal box before flinging it away.

The bathroom door swung open, then slammed shut. Pete was out for the afternoon. Joe was probably practicing, after being scared by the ‘SOLD OUT’ sign on the venue, and Andy was probably trying to comfort him.

Two fingers snacked down, down his throat. His eyes watered. It took him a minute- heaving as his fingers were ejected with a thin sheen of sticky, saliva like liquid on his fingers that he wiped on his pants. He readjusted, keeping his middle section relaxed. 

Patrick had decided that his favorite method was the small hole behind his uvula, even if it wrecked his voice. It hurt, but he was grateful for it. On the fourth try it worked, and he smiled morbidly as the sense of nausea overwhelmed him and he spewed, the food leaving his system as he felt the weight lifted off his conscious. He didn't notice he’d cried until after. It happened sometimes- the wet stains on his cheeks a sick reminder, the shade of red his eyes turned became pretty to him, and the way his eyelashes stuck together and turned darker made him feel slightly better.

The air freshener was something red with pictures of red and orange leaves fluttering across the logo. It smelled like Pete, in a strange way, so he sat and breathed it in for a minute, closing his eyes.

He flushed the toilet. Stretched. Winced. Went to lay down. He had three missed calls- Kevin, Joe, Pete. He called Pete first. 

“Patrick! Dude, this venue- you should get down here. It’s fucking awesome, baby, I have a surprise for you too.”

Patrick’s voice was raspy. “Okay, sweetheart,” he managed, stretching again and cracking his knuckles. He ached.

When Patrick got there Pete was a bouncing ball of energy outside, and it took a second for Patrick to realize Pete was probably high. Just because Pete didn’t make it as obvious anymore, Patrick knew he’d indulge himself sometimes. It just wasn't public information.

“Patrick! Patrick, oh, sweetheart!” Pete flung himself into Patrick’s arms, swaying. Patrick held him up, smiling into the man’s neck.

“Hey.” He ran his fingers up and down Pete’s spine as Pete blabbered on about Joe’s “great shit, real great shit” and how Andy had already hit somebody and they'd been there for less than an hour. Patrick just nodded, hoping for two things.

This venue didn't have food.  
Whatever Pete was on, it’d wear off by the show.

Pete almost fell. Patrick caught him and dragged him inside. “C’mon, sweetheart.”

 

Patrick ate exactly three potato chips and half a square of chocolate before pushing the plate away and going to do his warmups. He thought he was in the clear until Andy cornered him, pressing him against the wall. “Asshole,” the drummer hissed, glaring at him. “Make Pete apologize to Joe. Or, maybe, get your boyfriend to stop getting fucked up before shows!” He gave Patrick no time to respond (or, rather, think up a witty insult that would cut deep but not really injure Andy, just stun), before Andy stalked away to the green room, and Patrick was left with his mouth agape.

The show went okay. He could see the slight disappointment on people’s faces.

Andy was talking in hushed tones to Pete when it happened. Well, if he needed to go into description, he would say Joe happened and promptly leave the room. 

Joe stood up, pointed his finger at Pete, and yelled. And when he said yell, he did not, in any sense, mean a “Fuck yeah!” or “Shut up, Pete!” as normal, and if Patrick hadn’t been there he wouldn’t believe the fact two of his best friends could fight like that, since holy shit, Joe was on top of Pete. Andy jumped back, eyes wide, ready to intervene if he really needed to, wanting Joe to fight his own fights. 

Joe’s knuckles dug into Pete’s jaw and Pete cried out, swinging his legs in a biking motion until his toe found purchase and Joe fell backwards, clutching at his crotch and hissing as he stood up slowly, putting up his fists after a moment. The thing about Joe fighting is that the kid was strong, and right now the height advantage was not helping the struggling bassist stare him down. Patrick had seen Joe fight dozens of times, and he knew that Joe’s face meant that if he punched Pete, his boyfriend would not be getting back up. Patrick lurched forward, and in that moment he felt brave and devoted.

The thing about Pete being angry is that it didn’t take a lot to make him furious. One of the things that ticked him off, naturally, would be his boyfriend limp on the floor and Joe’s knuckles bloody. 

When Patrick woke up, Pete’s hands were running through his hair, and the only reason why he knew it was Pete was how cold his hands were. Patrick opened his eyes and _pain, pain, pain_ , he closed them, white hot searing real pain. Pete shushed him, brow furrowing. “Baby, it’s okay. Fucker clocked y’pretty hard, right? You don’t have to answer. Open up, you need water, alright?” Patrick groaned weakly but parted his lips, and cool liquid poured down his throat, and he swallowed after a moment. “Hey, want to eat?” Patrick shook his head, a tiny motion that made his mind swim. Pete sighed, a sound that broke Patrick’s heart. “Will you try?” His fingers stopped moving against Patrick’s scalp, a soft pressure, and Patrick nodded weakly. Someone turned off the lights. Patrick tried opening his eyes. 

Pete was sitting on the couch, and the pillow his head was on was Pete’s thigh. His eyes dug into Patrick’s and a weak smile adorned his lips. He turned his head. Joe was in the corner with his head down and Andy practically hanging over him, rubbing his back.


End file.
